


The Four Days of Christmas

by TeaHouseMoon



Series: The Four Days of Christmas [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 'Sherlock doesn't eat' cliche, Bottom Sherlock Holmes, Doggy Style, Drunk Lestrade, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Greg Lestrade - Freeform, Humour, John & Sherlock argue about the Christmas tree, John has to make him eat, John is a Horndog, Johnlock - Freeform, Johnlock Christmas countdown, Kissing, M/M, Scotland Yard Christmas Party, Sex, Sherlock and John in Greg's office, Sherlock wants John too, Smut, Top John Watson, blowjob, christmas crackers, christmas day, flatmates to lovers, handjobs, john wants sherlock, sex with romance, so he dares him, the Queen's speech
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-08 07:18:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 8,465
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5488526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeaHouseMoon/pseuds/TeaHouseMoon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christmas is four days away, and John and Sherlock are getting ready. In their own way.</p><p> </p><p>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~</p><p> </p><p>A chapter will be posted every day until the 25th of December, to let you in in what the boys are up to, in real time.<br/>Grab the mulled wine and hot chocolate, and get ready for fluff, humour, sass, and tradition, and of course, a whole lot of smut...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Christmas Tree

Sherlock wrinkled his nose with contempt, fixed John with a hard stare. The whole Christmas tree business was just another ridiculous tradition of this ridiculous time of year, and as he’d made it clear to John – and Mrs Hudson, and anyone who would listen, really – he had no intention in taking part.

“No.”

John took a deep breath that made him shrug in the shoulders, and very narrowly stopped himself from rolling his eyes; smiled with all the patience he could muster. His flatmate was a bloody Scrooge.

“Come on, Sherlock! Everybody has one. And the flat looks depressing without.”

“It will look depressing _with_ one!” Sherlock waved his hand dismissively, a frown making his nose scrunch up. “Those stupid baubles, the idiotic tinsel. We’re not kids, John.”

“It's not just for kids!” John didn't even know why he was still arguing. He should just put the tree up anyway, screw Sherlock and his predilection for ruining all fun things. Sherlock could surely tolerate a few Christmas decorations in the flat for the next week.

“Fine.”

John turned around sharply. “Fi- fine?” He stuttered, caught by surprise at the sudden turn of events.

“Fine – but only if we can hang those glass eyeballs on it, instead of baubles.”

_What._

John exhaled in annoyance. “Sherlock, we’re not hanging eyeballs on our Christmas tree!”

Sherlock regarded him with a scandalised, shocked expression – which John knew was very much for show. Just to irritate him, _the git._

“Why not? They're fascinating. And they're clean - I've disinfected them thoroughly so I can assure you, there's no trace of bodily fluids on them.”

John took one, rather pointless step towards the corner where he intended to put the tree – as if the poor defenceless thing was already there and he needed to protect it.

“Sherlock, no.”

He heard a great sigh; a few stretched moments of silence – then Sherlock took a couple of slow, measured steps towards him. John moved his hand away from where he was squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index fingers – _patience, patience_ – and saw that Sherlock was tilting his head towards him, blue eyes burning and staring right into his.

“If you let me hang the eyeballs on the tree”, Sherlock started, his tone low, but strangely business-like. “…I'll let you kiss me.”

_Hang on, now._

“What?” John threw his hands down, inhaled, exhaled angrily. “What - Who said I want to kiss you?”

Sherlock’s plump mouth distended into an almost thin line in response – _his mouth, his lips_ , now John could think of nothing else. _Great. Just great_ – with the corners lifted up so it was evident that it was a smile, and a smug one at that. His eyes twinkled; then he lifted his chin, and walked off, leaving John to harrumph alone in the living room.

 

 

 

A few hours later, a naked tree just fresh from the shop stood in the corner of the living room, near the kitchen. John sat on his chair, sifting through a magazine – Tesco’s own, crammed with ‘advice for the Best Christmas Ever’. (John frowned. Who ever could be bothered to make Rosemary wreath place cards?)

On the kitchen table sat a box full of shiny, multi-coloured glass eyes. John jumped slightly when he heard the front door close downstairs; he stood, flexing his fingers nervously, as Sherlock came up the stairs and into the room.

“Ready to decorate the tree, I see.”

John kept his eyes chained to Sherlock’s. Frowned; gave a little, tight nod. “The sellotape will have to do.”

Sherlock smiled briefly, then turned around, and picked one of the small glass ovals out from the box. It was cold to the touch and there was no hole or hoop through which to tie it to the tree, of course; he tore off a bit of sellotape, wrapped it on the tip of one of the top branches, taped it to the back of the eye. Gave another small, pleased smile at what he'd just done; then he spoke – voice deep, dark.

“You can kiss me now, Doctor Watson.”

John had had the wisdom to fix himself a glass of whisky just before this – to help with nerves, though he would never admit to it, of course - and now as he took a couple of heavy steps towards Sherlock, he felt as if all the alcohol had gone to his head right at that moment. Sherlock stood, patiently waiting and quiet, for once; John checked his eyes, that he was definitely okay with this.

And then he kissed him.

First, just lightly, just on the lips. They were soft and moist, and made him close his eyes. Then, he opened his own mouth, licked slow and warm at Sherlock, until Sherlock opened his mouth in return; and John forgot all the rules of the game. Was he supposed to stop? Was he supposed to pull back, end the kiss, smile at that little joke between them?

He forgot all that and kept kissing, his hand went up to Sherlock’s nape, fingers into his hair, he sighed at the softness – everything was soft – and pushed in more, angled his head for Sherlock to follow his lead. The best part was that Sherlock did follow; he sighed, and breathed, and kissed right back.

Alarm, and a strange sort of euphoria meshed inside John’s chest, becoming one, stopping him from asking himself exactly what he was doing. He knew he should wonder, really he should investigate that feeling but he felt himself adamantly refusing to, as Sherlock pushed against him again and again, prolonging a kiss that now felt more stolen, forbidden and yet so right, so natural, with every second that went by.

“So you did want to kiss me,” was Sherlock’s conclusion, once they separated, mouths kiss-bitten and tired, breaths short.

John, tense and charged like a bow, could only bite his lip, and frown. He watched Sherlock smile – not impudently, not like his usual smile. A slow, tender version of it. And John suddenly knew that Sherlock had wanted to kiss him just as much, even though now he was retreating to his bedroom once again, without uttering a word.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 'Rosemary wreath place cards' are actually a thing, and they're actually in the Tesco magazine - have a look at this link https://www.tescoliving.com/articles/easy-diy-rosemary-wreath-place-cards (seriously, who can be bothered to make those??) haha.
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment if you liked this story, and come back tomorrow for more...


	2. Mince Pies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Christmas gathering at Mrs Hudson's; mince pies; and another dare.
> 
> Perhaps it's just a game - perhaps it's not...

“She's thinking of propositioning Mr Chatterjee.”

“Sherlock.”

“What? It's not my fault if Mrs Turner has her eye on that man, too!”

John was grateful Sherlock was keeping his voice down at least.

“Mrs Hudson should know.”

John sighed; made sure his smile stayed plastered on his face just in case Mrs Hudson or any of the guests – Molly, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson’s sister, Mrs Turner and Mr Chatterjee – should turn and see him.  
Sherlock and he were sat at the small table in Mrs Hudson’s kitchen, reluctant guests – well, Sherlock more so - at the festive gathering Mrs Hudson had decided to host since her sister was in town. Through the kitchen door John could see the guests in the living room; come to think of it, Mrs Turner did seem rather giggly around Mr Chatterjee.

“Sherlock, be quiet. And eat something, please.”

He saw Sherlock glance at the spread of food on the table in front of them – all seasonal specialities, which Mrs Hudson had laid out with much excitement: pigs in blankets, roast potatoes, turkey terrine; stuffing, black pudding, sprouts. Trifle. Mince pies.

“Have some potatoes.”

Sherlock crossed his arms in front of his chest and looked away. “No.”

John sighed. “Pudding?” He waved with his hand; Sherlock was such a child. Mrs Hudson was going to be upset if he didn't eat anything. “At least have a mince pie!”

Sherlock sighed, much more dramatically than John had done, and stood from the chair where he’d been sat, sulking, for the whole of the twenty minutes they'd been there. “No, John. I ate yesterday. I'm not hungry.”  
Fiddling with his hands as if he didn't know what to do with them he walked away from the table and into the hallway.

  
A few sips of sherry later, John made his way to the bathroom.  
He could hear the guests still tittering in the living room. He supposed he was meant to go and join them, mingle, show that he was friendly and happy to see everyone; but as much as he reprimanded Sherlock for being unsociable, he had to admit – he wasn't much better himself. He dried his hands and made to walk back through the hallway towards the kitchen, and the drinks.

He was surprised to find Sherlock there – he thought he'd gone back up to the flat already.  
He smiled at him in the dim light of the hallway.

“Found a way to entertain yourself yet?”, he teased gently, glancing at Sherlock’s dark-looking eyes. The sherry buzzed happily in his system; he felt rather warm.

“No, but it seems you have,” Sherlock remarked, tilting his head in question.

John chuckled. “Well, at least I ate. So I can enjoy a drink if I want.”

It was another gentle jibe that he couldn't help – persuading Sherlock to eat regularly was a constant battle and he was running out of ways to tackle it – but it made Sherlock huff irritatedly, and start to walk away. Before his movements registered with his brain, John reached out with a hand and clasped it around Sherlock’s wrist, and held him in place. Sherlock looked at him questioningly; John gave a little smile, shook his head. Frowned a bit.

“Just. Just come here.”

He wasn't sure his brain could fully comprehend what was going on – let alone approve. That he'd decided to kiss Sherlock, in Mrs Hudson’s hallway, with people next door who could come round and see them any time; that he'd asked for a kiss, after they'd only done it once, yesterday, and almost as a joke. That Sherlock was kissing him back willingly, passionately; like he'd been waiting for it.  
None of it made sense, and yet, it was exactly what he wanted right then.

“Mmh”, Sherlock’s quiet moan was delicious. “You taste good.”

John had to close his eyes at the low timbre of that voice; at the way it made the words sound. Aroused? He chuckled on Sherlock’s mouth, licked at the full, luscious lips.

“Sherry,”he explained. He shooed the voice in his head that told him they should be kissing in a more private situation – in fact, that they should not be kissing at all! – and, almost in spite of it, he reached up with his hand to cup Sherlock’s head and nudge it down for another kiss. With his hips, he pushed against Sherlock’s belly; he felt a bulge there, hot and hard – he didn't know if he was supposed to be surprised, or not.  
Yes, definitely aroused.

“John,” Sherlock moaned quietly against his lips. John pushed a bit more firmly, increased the friction between their bellies – he was just as hard as Sherlock.

“John…”

The following moan sounded more desperate and demanding. Sherlock sucked in a breath against John’s mouth; widened his legs slightly to accommodate the firm, though subtle press of his hips. Like a slippery slope it made John only want to rut harder – Sherlock was being surprisingly docile – and he bit gently at Sherlock’s lower lip as he did so.  
Sherlock sobbed as the kiss ended; John found himself dying to touch him, trace his outline through his tailored, respectable trousers - rub his fingers there.  
What was he even thinking?

He harrumphed, swallowed. He felt the sherry still warming up his system and his cheeks; he closed his eyes, tried hard to come back into himself. Sherlock looked down awkwardly as well, shifted uncomfortably, trapped between the wall and John’s body; and John realised that his resolve had gone out of the window after all, together with his self-consciousness, as surprising as it was.

“I could-“he started, harrumphed quietly again. Felt embarrassed, and stupid because of that. “I could – help you, with - this.” He pushed his hips meaningfully against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock inhaled, moaned. “John…”

And John had an idea.

He pushed slowly again against Sherlock, rubbed his pelvis against him. “If you eat something, I will – help you.” He looked down at Sherlock’s crotch. “With that.”

He saw Sherlock’s eyes grow as large as saucers. The light was dim in the hallway but he could make out Sherlock’s features – him biting his lower lip, the little frown between his eyes. He was annoyed, but definitely intrigued.

“Eat a mince pie,” John pressed. “Just one.”

“And then we’ll go upstairs?” Sherlock’s tone was suspicious. “Do you promise?”

John smiled, satisfied, because Sherlock was caving.

“Yes.” He reached with a hand between their bellies, and gently stroked Sherlock through his trousers – he was still hard, and it made him exhale, close his eyes. John could not believe he was doing this in Mrs Hudson’s hallway, at Mrs Hudson’s Christmas party.

“Fine.”

Sherlock had walked away before John was even able to realise what had happened. He strode to the kitchen in long steps; John hurried after him – there was no way Sherlock was going to cheat his way out of this, he had to see.

It was cheating, a bit, anyway, because Sherlock liked mince pies, really; it was cheating because the pies weren’t even real food, but John would have done pretty much anything to see Sherlock eat something at all, and a mince pie was surely going to do some good to those bony hips of his. He remembered a time when Sherlock had put on some weight – just a bit, just so that his belly didn’t concave that much, just enough to fill him up a bit in all the right places – and John had secretly really, really liked the result.

When they went back upstairs, without telling Mrs Hudson - yes it was rude, but she wouldn’t have let them go, they could explain tomorrow, well maybe not really explain - Sherlock’s mouth tasted spicy and incredibly sweet as they kissed; John adored that, adored it, and kept asking for more, stopping and starting again and changing the angle and opening his mouth. He wanted to eat Sherlock alive; he was soft and warm and fragrant and delicious.  
Alarm bells echoed once again in his brain - and he frowned in the middle of a kiss at the realisation that he really, really liked kissing Sherlock; really really liked him. That was dangerous. That, was definitely something he shouldn’t have involved himself with.  
Yet all his thoughts vanished into thin air when Sherlock moaned. Gave a little demanding push with his hips; John chuckled quietly, kissed Sherlock’s lips once more, a long, tender peck.

“Shhh…”, he soothed, smiling at him and looking down. He let his hand stroke languidly down Sherlock’s abdomen, over the placket of his trousers and his now not-so erect penis; John smiled when he felt it harden quickly again.

“Want to lie down?”

“No, no, here. I want to see you.” Sherlock said, urgently, impatiently, leaning back a little to half-sit against the sitting room table.  
John put his hands to good use – unbuttoning Sherlock’s trousers. Opening them – pulling them down, together with his silky underwear, enough to expose his cock, some of the auburn curls around it. John would have wanted to do this while looking into Sherlock’s eyes but he found it a too-daunting enterprise right now, with his flatmate’s penis in his hands - _former_ flatmate? _Former friend_? What were they, now? - and about to touch him like he'd never had before. Like he hadn't touched another man in a rather long time.

He had the wits to think practicalities, though. As he started stroking Sherlock – drawing a long sigh from him, feeling him tense – he leant in to murmur against his cheek.

“Unbutton your shirt for me?”

Sherlock nodded slowly, pulled himself up a bit to bring his long, graceful hands to the buttons of his expensive indigo-blue shirt. His eyes were still closed, and John just watched him; once he was done, with both sides of his shirt pushed away from the chest, John sped up his strokes. Increased the pressure; kept watching as Sherlock threw his head back, bit into his lower lip.

“That's it,” John heard himself say. “That's it.”  
He set a rhythm, every now and then squeezing harder, twisting his wrist, sliding all the way up over the crown to pull the skin back down, expose the most sensitive area. He watched it swell; remembered the times he'd done this in the past, to other partners, so long ago – remembered wanting to reach down and tongue the slit, lick it with purpose.  
But that wasn't in the agreement right now, was it…  
His thumb stroked up and over the tip; it rested gently there, and John heard the sob, felt Sherlock’s slim hips jerk a little.

“John…”, Sherlock moaned. John stroked once more – “ah” – then squeezed; then resumed his strokes. He leant over and kissed Sherlock on the mouth, once, gently; then on the cheek.

“So warm,” he murmured against the side of his face. His own hips pressed against Sherlock’s waist, started giving little, firm undulations; his own cock was hard, and begging to be freed, to be touched. He had to close his eyes, nearly lost the rhythm when Sherlock opened his legs wider, made more room for John to settle in between his thighs and rut against him.

“Fuck,” John bit out. He rolled his forehead gently on Sherlock’s cheek, almost deliriously. Squeezed Sherlock’s erection harder in his fist. “How does it feel,” a grimace. “Does it feel good?”  
He gave a twist of his wrist along with his words, turned his face against Sherlock’s when the younger man opened his mouth to breathe out, sob at his touch. “Ah, yes.” He cried out softly. “Don't – ah, don't stop.”

John had no intention of stopping. His arm was getting tense, but adrenaline kept him going, the desire to draw more sounds from Sherlock’s flushed lips, the thrill of being the one giving him pleasure. He bit once at Sherlock’s full, deliciously swollen lower lip, then lowered his head, brought his mouth to the small tight nipple right in front of him, bared by the shirt pulled aside and waiting. As soon as his tongue touched the nub Sherlock breathed out noisily, gave a tight jerk with his hips. John sucked on the nipple – it was something he loved doing, and God, he loved that Sherlock was so responsive - kept up the strokes with determination. His own cock, trapped within his clothes, felt swollen and ready and John followed the instinct to thrust, wished he could slide his cock against Sherlock's, skin to skin; wished he could be _in him_.

That last thought nearly did it for him and so he gave the nipple a final suck, raised himself up to Sherlock’s level and leant against him once more, mouth to mouth, though they were not kissing, more like breathing each other’s air; moaning softly against each other.  
John concentrated on Sherlock’s exhales as he gave another hard pull, stroked the sensitive tip with his thumb.

“Come for me, Sherlock. Come on.”

When Sherlock came, he cried out against John’s mouth – and the sound was suddenly exactly what John had always wanted to hear.  
Sherlock had his eyes closed and so John closed his, too, leaning his forehead against Sherlock’s as he still held his cock in his hand, massaged it in slowing motions. Sherlock was moaning softly through his breath, and John listened, rapt; his own hips were still moving gently against Sherlock’s side. He was still hard. For once, he wished he could still come untouched, like in his younger days.

“Sherlock!”

Mrs Hudson’s shrill voice from the stairs cut through their reverie. Made them almost jump. John groaned, chuckling quietly to himself. Figures.

“Sherlock! You two ran away like little children!” Her tone was one of motherly reproach. “Please come back down? We’re about to break out the brandy cream!”

“It's a good thing we thought to lock the door, for once,” Sherlock said, smiled a little. His voice was rough, and he cleared his throat, self-conscious.  
John looked down, hesitant. In another situation, in another time, he would have brought his hand to his lips and licked it clean. He wished he could taste Sherlock; he wished he could watch him taste himself from his hand. But this was not the right situation and not the right time and so he harrumphed again, half in annoyance, half to steel himself; moved his hand away.  
As if reading his mind, Sherlock reached behind himself for the box of tissues they always left there, passed it to him.

“We should – she won’t stop calling,” John murmured, almost apologetically, cleaning his hand, quickly and self-consciously.  
Sherlock looked up from under his eyelashes.

“What about you?”

As a silver lining, John supposed, Mrs Hudson had given them the perfect excuse to pluck themselves out of a possibly tricky situation – they hadn’t negotiated the small matter of _returning favours_.

“I’ll- I’ll sort it out. You should – go and clean yourself. Pop downstairs and show your face.”

Sherlock nodded, and John realised how strange it was to see him so easily agreeing - and to a social event, no less. He supposed Sherlock must feel the same way as he himself felt: confused by the turn of events. Unsure as to what was happening, where it was taking them. If it was even taking them anywhere.

He took a step back, gave Sherlock some space to stand, and make his way to the bathroom. Bit his lip, couldn't stop himself from thinking.  
He did hope it was taking them somewhere. He wanted it to.

“Please come downstairs soon?”, Sherlock asked then, voice tentative. His trousers and pants were still unbuttoned, he was holding them up with a hand, a bit awkwardly, and like Sherlock – polished, styled, put together Sherlock - would have never done in normal circumstances; yet his eyes searched John’s, he waited, uncertain, for John’s response.

John nodded, smiled a little. “I will.”

Perhaps, just perhaps, he already had an answer to his question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading! Please leave a comment if you liked this chapter.
> 
> Two more to go - come back tomorrow. :)


	3. Paper Crowns

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Christmas party at Scotland Yard. Party crackers, paper crowns; John and Sherlock manage to spend some time alone once again.

Lestrade must be pretty sloshed, because neither Sherlock nor John could believe he was standing there now, laughing and pestering John about pulling a cracker with him. John was amused, at both the glittering green thing that Greg held in his hand and at the D.I.’s cheeks, which were definitely showing more colour than his usual; and so he let himself be persuaded. He hadn't done Christmas crackers since he was a teenager.

Laughter followed the loud, gunpowder-smelly pop, and then the customary reading of the terrible, terrible joke that had exploded out of it – _What happened to the man who stole an advent calendar? –_ John laughed and cringed on cue. _Oh, dear._

“Here, John. Wear the crown.”

What? _Nope._

“No, God, please don't make me,” John protested immediately. He waved the thin piece of flimsy red paper at Greg. “You wear it.”

“Nah.” Lestrade’s eyes were full of glee. “Nah. I've got Sally’s already - she's the party pooper of the group, so you can't be I'm afraid. Come on John!”

John was just about to reiterate that no way he was going to do that, when he saw Sherlock smile knowingly from the corner he’d exiled himself to

“Yes John. I think you should do it.”

Well, that was strange. Sherlock hated Christmas and all the goofy things people did – as he’d exhaustively proven in the past couple of days alone - and John was pretty sure wearing a paper crown from a cracker was exactly one of them.

“What-“

Sherlock smiled again. Stared at John.

“I _dare you_ to wear it.

John could feel himself go speechless. Sherlock, involving himself in a lark to make someone wear a paper crown? That wasn't like him. The real Sherlock would have incinerated that piece of paper with his eyes long ago, not joined in in Lestrade’s tipsy wind-ups.

John looked around himself almost comically. Caught Lestrade’s amused leer; took a step towards Sherlock, lowered his voice.

“If this is your way of getting back at me for making you stay at the Scotland Yard Christmas party-“

“Look at your phone, John.”

John blinked stupidly, but did as he was told – all the while feeling like the whole thing had escalated for no good reason and, even more horribly, that he had been the main instigator of it. He should have just put on the bloody thing and have it over with.

 

_If you wear the stupid crown, I will give you a blow job. – SH_

John closed the message as soon as he read it – okay, perhaps he had to read it twice – fervently hoping that Lestrade hadn't seen any of it. But Greg still stood in his original spot, smiling like a loony and looking from John to Sherlock as if he expected something hilarious to happen any minute.

John swallowed, cleared his throat. With stiff, reluctant hands he unfolded the silly crown, put it on his head perfunctorily, staring hard at Sherlock for the whole time.

He didn't hear the eruption of cheers that greeted his feat; didn't respond to Lestrade’s happy smile and declaration that ‘See, that wasn't so bad!’, and to his reaching out to click his glass against John’s on the table. He just kept his eyes firmly on Sherlock, fiercely staring him down. All he could think about was that text – and blow job, Sherlock’s mouth, that beautiful mouth, and NowIveDoneItYouBetterNotTellMeYouWereJoking.

Oh god. He really, really didn't know what was happening to him.

“Come with me,” Sherlock half-whispered to him when Lestrade walked over to the food table and they were no longer the centre of attention. He certainly did not have to ask twice: John followed him instantly, leaving the small crowd to drink and taunt someone else with crowns and cheesy cracker jokes.

 

 

 

 

“Sherlock, we can't!” John found himself whispering not even ten minutes later, right after Sherlock snuck them into a dark office on the second floor at Scotland Yard, closed the door, and pushed him against it, kissing him aggressively. “How did you even get the keys to Lestrade’s office?!”

Sherlock smiled against his lips. “John, I'm afraid you still think of Graham as being more alert than he actually is.” He kissed him again. “He's incredibly easy to pickpocket.”

John wanted to protest some more, but Sherlock’s passionate kisses were maddening, the feel of that slim, muscular body against his just perfect. They’d only kissed on two occasions so far and in both John had been the one leading them; now Sherlock was taking initiative, taking what he wanted from John and doing it so beautifully. John was delirious with it –and hard as hell.

“We didn't have to do this straight away. Should have gone ho-“ he tried again, just because he felt he should, even though his whole body was screaming for Sherlock’s hands and mouth and skin.

Sherlock bit his lower lip. “This can't wait.”

His hands went to John’s fly, almost hysterical in their haste to open it. John stood with his back against the door, passive, barely holding himself upright, and took deep breaths to try and keep his focus. Before he knew it Sherlock had dropped down to his knees; John forced himself to look at him, as Sherlock took him out of his trousers, stroked him once with his big hand – John struggled to hold still – fixed his dark turquoise, burning eyes onto John’s throbbing erection.

“How long has it been since someone did this for you, John?” Sherlock asked, a sideways smile on his flushed face and voice low, languid, dripping hot liquid honey. John closed his eyes, was forced to take another deep breath. Reached to rub his thumb against Sherlock’s lower lip, hard.

“Just get to it, Sherlock.” A grunt. “Don't fuck about.”

His face burned at that – he’d never spoken to Sherlock that way, and he was about to apologise, feeling utterly ridiculous, when Sherlock did exactly as he was asked.

Face flushed, almost unable to breathe by now, John felt the hot and wet of his mouth wrap around the tip of his cock; he watched, as Sherlock’s incredible, reddened lips caressed it, kissed the underside, kissed the crown and opened for his tongue to lick, and rub. As much as John wanted to keep quiet, it was a battle he was doomed to lose from the beginning, and he knew it.

“Fuck, Sherlock!”

He resorted to gritting his teeth after that. Sherlock took more of him inside his maddeningly scorching hot mouth; applied pressure, relaxed his throat. Opened his eyes to look up at John when the older man reached down to run a hand through his hair, and to stroke his fringe away so he could watch every moment of it. Sherlock’s lips – scarlet now, swollen - stretched around his cock. His head moving back and forth, one of his well manicured hands holding the prick steady at the base. His mouth enveloping the shaft; pushing deeper, obedient, taking more in when John’s hand in his hair guided gently – until his lips nearly touched the sparse chestnut hair at the base of John’s cock.  
John’s hand squeezed carefully; and Sherlock pushed further, until his nose was nearly flush against John’s belly, until his throat almost rebelled. John held his hand on his head but stroked soothingly; felt him swallow. “Fuck. Fuck, Sherlock.”

He meant to remind Sherlock to breathe, please, _just a little longer, just breathe,_ but he found himself utterly unable to put sounds together to produce words and not just growls or moans. He watched as Sherlock held exquisitely still for a few more seconds and then drew back, tongue lapping as he went, and saliva leaving copious traces on John and on his own chin. He watched, as Sherlock took a breath, closed his eyes again, pushed forward once more. He looked so gorgeous like that; John's eyes positively rolled back in their sockets. His knees definitely wobbled.

“You are the most beautiful thing,” John growled quietly. He had to close his eyes at that – he’d never said anything of the sort to Sherlock. Yes, of course he’d praised him before, and very often actually – but _this_ type of praise, this was something he’d never said. Always managed not to share – always managed to bite his tongue, every time he’d wanted to tell Sherlock that he thought he was _gorgeous_.

Those were the kind of compliments he gave to a woman; to a lover, a _partner..._

He set his jaw, and had to take another really deep breath when Sherlock stopped on the outward slide to give a little, gentle bite to the underneath of the tip. John squeezed his fingers on Sherlock’s head, trapping a few thick locks in his hold, making Sherlock whine quietly. He let his hand stroke down over Sherlock’s temple, down to his cheek, nearly to the corner of his mouth, wanting to _feel_ him as he sucked his cock, wanting to touch, as the smooth skin tensed and swelled, and relaxed again.

He wondered if he'd ever be able to see Sherlock the same way again. See him as the detective, as the posh genius, as his friend – instead of the gorgeous, gorgeous creature that sucked his cock so wonderfully.

“I'm close,” he murmured roughly, to no one. He returned his hand to Sherlock’s hair; the other, which had been lying limply, stupidly, by his side, he placed on Sherlock’s other cheek. Stroked his cheekbone, as he watched Sherlock slow down, look up at him with those large blue eyes of his.

It was an agreement and an encouragement, and John took a deep inhale, felt his limbs and body tense as he checked Sherlock’s eyes again, murmured “Breathe”. Then he started thrusting; one, two, three times. Sherlock took him so gracefully, eyes closed and throat relaxed, that John simultaneously felt like wanting to pass out for the pleasure, and hoping it went on forever.

He started to pull out, but Sherlock shook his head as best as he could, then pulled back himself, gave John’s cock a lick and a hard suck to the tip, and took him in his mouth once again – and John _came._

He did feel like he was going to pass out. He did have his fingers on Sherlock’s throat and so he felt him swallow; he didn't think he could take all of this, so much, at once. Lust, desire, tenderness, pride. Warmth, softness; hard edges that melted into heat, and back to tenderness again.

Sherlock let him go, and made to stand. John had to support him – he was exhausted – and he turned them, holding Sherlock around his biceps gently as he did, pressing him against the door instead.

“That was gorgeous,” he murmured against the side of Sherlock’s face, lips in his sweaty hair. Sherlock was breathing just as hard as him and so John leant in to kiss him, softly but deeply, licking his own taste from that mouth, experiencing a frisson of ecstasy at the thought.

“Let me make you come,” he whispered once again against the side of Sherlock's face, nuzzling into him – though when he tried to move his hands they did not seem to want to cooperate.

Sherlock chuckled quietly.

“We can't stay any longer. Lestrade will be coming up here soon to fetch his cigars.”

John sniggered back, nuzzled into Sherlock again. He felt almost delirious.

“Cigars? Bugger said he'd stopped smoking…”

“They’re his celebratory cigars,” Sherlock explained. He nudged into John’s face with his nose and mouth, until John lifted his head, looked at him. He still had his arms around Sherlock and had no intention of letting go – Lestrade or not.

“It's midnight,” Sherlock said softly. “Merry Christmas, John.”

John smiled. A wide, happy smile. “Merry Christmas, Sherlock,” he murmured back, and then kissed him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please leave a comment if you liked this chapter! 
> 
> Thank you for reading - and thank you to everyone who's been following so far! Final chapter tomorrow.
> 
> Happy Christmas Eve!! :)
> 
> ps The answer to the joke John got in the craker is... "He got 25 days." Yes, I know. AWFUL! :D


	4. The Queen's Speech

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's Christmas day, and John wants to watch the Queen's speech on telly.
> 
> Sherlock convinces him to do something much, much better.

And when it came to it, John couldn't believe another year had come and gone, and Christmas Day was once again here - and nearly done with, as well. As he sat on the couch, legs outstretched in front of him – they felt stiff, too much sitting, he told himself he’d take up running come January – he looked at his feet as he flexed his toes inside his slippers. He liked Christmas alright, but if he had to be honest he was rather glad the cheesy songs and overeating and stress were nearly over, blessedly, for another twelve long months.

Still, there was one last thing, one last tradition that everybody liked to follow, John included, on this day: watching the Queen’s Speech on telly. Seeing Her Majesty speak to her subjects from Buckingham Palace felt like something from another time. He'd hated to have to sit down for it as a child, he'd always thought it was boring; perhaps, now, age was catching up with him, he thought with an amused smile.

Sherlock came in to the room just as he’d refilled his glass of brandy and was turning the telly on to the BBC.

“What are you doing?”, Sherlock asked, plopping down sideways on the free half of the couch. His voice was gravelly, as if with sleep, and his eyes soft; he’d retreated to his bedroom an hour earlier, and John didn't believe it was to read.

“Queen’s speech is on in ten minutes.”

Sherlock frowned. “John!” His voice had a really scandalised pitch in just that small little word – John often thought he should catalogue how many ways Sherlock found to make his name sound like something different every time – and John blinked.

“What?”

“We are not watching the Queen’s speech.”

John sighed.

“Sherlock. Will you not start this again? Just for today?”

“This? What this? What do you mean?” Sherlock was still frowning, nose wrinkled up.

John took another breath. Sherlock looked more awake, but his wild curls were messy, his eyes wide and of the lighter shade of blue they changed to when he’d just woken up. Suddenly, John didn't feel like reprimanding him any longer.

After all it was because of Sherlock’s protests to the whole business of Christmas traditions, with the rules to follow even if you don't like the gravy or you despise the lyrics of the songs, that they had crossed a line they'd never even acknowledged in the three years they'd known each other. It startled John, but as he watched Sherlock now, feeling tenderness instead of irritation, he knew that what had happened between them was something he'd always wanted, even though he'd refused to admit it.

How to go about it, now, and how Sherlock himself felt on the subject, well – those were questions he didn't have an answer for, yet.

“Why don't you want to watch the Queen, then, Sherlock?” He asked, with a patient smile.

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

“Oh, come on, John. It's a ridiculous, outdated institution that has no actual function in today’s society, in which a symbolic monarch promises to be apolitical yet without fail eventually always supports the governing party’s ideology!”, he fired off, words coming out of his lips at lightning speed.

John chuckled. “If you want me to believe that that's your reason for not-“

“…and we might end up seeing Mycroft.”

At that, John positively laughed.

“Sherlock, what-“

“You know that's what he does, even though he denies it, with increasing and alarming stupidity”, Sherlock waved his hand irritatedly. “He's in and out of Buckingham Palace, and I bet he'll find a way to appear somewhere in the background, at some point in the transmission, _just to annoy me._ I don't want to see him.”

Sherlock’s eyes were incensed. John laughed, heartily, for another moment, then looked up at him. He was still frowning, curls still in disarray, and so John, helpless to stop himself, reached out and smoothed a wild lock away from his forehead, then a few more behind his ear.

“You're not going to see Mycroft, Sherlock,” he promised softly. He stroked a thumb lightly on the younger man’s cheekbone. He was hesitant, but, to his relief, Sherlock didn't seem taken aback. He closed his eyes; turned his face into John’s hand to encourage the caress.

His next words were said in a low whisper.

“You could take me to bed instead.”

John wasn’t sure he’d heard right.

“Instead of watching the Queen’s speech, John,” Sherlock repeated, gently rubbing the right side of his face against John’s hand, which had now stilled. “You can take me to bed.”

John wished he could say something, but his mouth refused to cooperate. Sherlock kissed his thumb, his eyes still bearing into John’s, checking for his reaction.

John had thought about it, but never expected it, for one second. And God, he realised with a shiver – how much he wanted it. He was already rock hard in his trousers just at the thought.

Sherlock leant over, placed a hand on the couch next to John’s half bent legs, in between his thighs. Kissed him on the cheek, then murmured in his ear.

“Forget this, and take me to bed. Come inside me.”

He turned his head to kiss John on the mouth. John was barely able to reciprocate, Sherlock’s words whirring in his mind, burning like fire – _fuck, yes, yes I want this_ – and he knew that was a deal already sealed.

 

 

 

 

Kissing on the bed, Sherlock’s bed, was an altogether different experience compared to all the other times they'd kissed. The soft cotton sheets felt cool against the skin, and smelled of Sherlock. Sherlock’s body, for all its angles and bones and flat surfaces, was soft and welcoming under John, and John could not bring himself to separate their mouths, stop his hands from stroking and touching him everywhere. It was actually Sherlock who caught his fingers, re-directed them on to the buttons of his shirt; fixed him with an encouraging, expectant stare.

Dizzy with want, John unhooked just enough buttons to lift up one side of the casual lounging shirt, expose the chest and one of the nipples. He leant down to kiss it, kiss the ribs and the flushed skin, tight over them.

“Shhh,” Sherlock cupped his face in one large hand, stopped his ministrations. “Shhh. Just – just undress me.”

That was a titanic feat at that moment, and John growled, willed his hands to move, and unbutton and unfasten just like he'd been asked to do. He couldn't help touching – lingering with fingers and strokes over all the skin he uncovered: nipples, ribs and flanks, belly, and thighs, and inner thighs.

Deftly, Sherlock’s hands returned the favour, and John found himself in admiration of how determinedly they moved. Freed of his trousers and underwear, John slid his body flush against Sherlock’s – his groin against Sherlock’s abdomen, knees sneaking in between Sherlock’s, his hands stroking up his thighs and behind, around his rump, and down to his buttocks.

“What is happening, Sherlock,” John growled softly against Sherlock’s mouth, eyes closed, fingers holding, squeezing. He felt a stab of fear at his question (irrational?); he hadn't meant to ask. His mind wasn't working properly, clouded over by the haze of desire and lust and pleasure, but he hadn't meant to ask, and risk reminding Sherlock that it was a mistake; that they shouldn't be doing this. God knew he didn't want to stop now he was in bed with Sherlock, and never get a chance to be so close to him again.

“We’re about to have sex, obviously.” Sherlock’s tone was clipped, but tender, and careful at the same time. He kissed John back; let the older man’s hands nudge his thighs apart, let them slide in between.

Well. That cleared John’s doubts.

He looked into Sherlock’s dark, glittering eyes for a moment. Watched them close when he stroked him between his legs, his testicles, and behind them.

He wished he could be calmer, more patient – savour every moment and every part of Sherlock’s body, like he'd secretly always wanted to do – but his hands were trembling, and his throat was dry, he had Sherlock naked right there in bed with him and he just _wantedwantedwanted_. He should probably go slow, and try to assess the situation better: how long had it been since Sherlock had done that, had he even ever done it before (John wagered he had, no virgin in the world could be that good at blowjobs, but then again, with Sherlock, who knew?)

He grunted when Sherlock rolled halfway around on the bed to open his bedside drawer.

“Just fetching the lube, John.”

He placed the little tub in John’s hand; rolled back around to lie next to John, docile, looking at him intensely.

_Lube._ John blinked for a moment, then wrapped his hand around it, crawled up to prop himself on one elbow on the mattress.

“I've done this before,” Sherlock beat him to the question. John stroked the fringe from his forehead.

“Women?”

Sherlock shook his head. His eyes were wide, and trusting, and John marvelled at that. “No. Just men. Never women.”

The stab of something that pulsed into John’s chest was entirely new. He'd never thought of Sherlock with someone; he'd never thought of Sherlock allowing another person to touch, to want him. He closed his eyes, feeling his cock harden even more if possible, even though his chest was prickling with jealousy. He must be short-circuiting, he definitely must be, this is what Sherlock Holmes - naked, in bed - did to him.

“You?”

John had to take a moment to realise he was being asked a question. He opened the lube, pressed some onto his free hand while he still was lucid enough to do so.

“Women. And men, too, a few men. In the army.”

Sherlock widened his legs obediently, and John slid his hand in between them; stroked him gently, pressed two fingers against the hot, delicate skin of his entrance.

“How many men?”

His voice was a growl against Sherlock’s lips. He listened to his breathing, felt it on his own mouth. Slid two fingers in him, deeply, at the next intake of air.

“Aaaaaah,” Sherlock breathed out, closing his eyes, arching his back and bucking up in reaction.

“How many men,” John insisted, voice more commanding, leaning over Sherlock once again when his spasm calmed. His cock was leaking against Sherlock’s flank.

“This is turning you on, isn't it,” Sherlock murmured on his mouth, looking up into his eyes and smirking. He grit his teeth at John’s next, purposeful thrust inside his body.

It was. It was, turning him on, that's it – and John wasn’t even sure why. Was it the thought of having an experienced Sherlock laid out in front of him, there for the taking? Was it that he liked thinking he was the last one – the one that got to _keep_ Sherlock, not just fuck him? The one to give him everything he wanted, and needed, the one that made him stay and want more.

He leant down to kiss Sherlock, and to distract himself from the perilous path his mind had gone down _once again._

“Just tell me, you rascal,” he growled on Sherlock’s mouth. His fingers, moving in steady motion – _in, out. In, out._

“Only - ah,” Sherlock started, arched his back. _Prostate, right there._ “Only four. And it was never – ah!- never while I’ve been living with you.”

And here it was, once again, the feeling of wanting to pass out for the pleasure even though they hadn’t really done anything yet. John exhaled, dropped his forehead against Sherlock’s collarbone. His hips started moving, little slow undulations that pushed his cock against Sherlock’s hip and matched the thrusts of his fingers.

They kissed again – open mouthed, deep, breathless.

“How do you want me,” Sherlock murmured against his lips once they separated. His breath was hot, and trembling at every slide of John’s fingers into his body; he was wound up just as tight as John.

“However – however you prefer.” John didn't really care. All he knew was that he wanted him, so much, in any way; he was bursting. He didn't think he'd ever been that hard in all his life.

Sherlock smiled on his mouth, on John’s lips that didn't stop demanding kisses and bites. “Then, from behind,” he decided. “You're well endowed” – John shivered at that – “it’ll be deeper for me. And it'll feel tight, for you…”

“You’re already tight,” John growled at that, pushing his fingers in again, eyes closed against the pleasure - and fuck, all the beautiful visuals Sherlock was planting in his mind.

“ _Tighter”_ , Sherlock whispered on his mouth; opened his eyes, wide and blue, looked right into John’s.

John felt like his breath had been knocked right out of him.

“You want to kill me. You fucking do, don’t you.”

He removed his fingers, let his hands touch everywhere on Sherlock’s body, while Sherlock knelt up and turned around in his arms. He wished they could do away with the condom, but he accepted the one Sherlock passed him, promised himself it was going to be _skin to skin, next time._

He gently guided Sherlock back against his cock. He felt he was going to die, as he finally, _finally,_ pushed into him. Into Sherlock’s body.

“You okay,” he managed to bite out breathlessly as he held Sherlock’s hips flush against himself.

Sherlock was breathing heavily, head hanging, helpless, down in between his arms.

“Yes. Ah – just, move. _Move.”_

John wanted to grunt and groan and swear – _fuck, fuck_ – but he bit his lip and made himself keep quiet, feel, _feel_ every single detail. Sherlock’s body, scorching hot from the inside and incredibly, maddeningly _tight;_ the narrow, strong hips pushing back against his, just as demanding, just as eager for pleasure; his breaths, his moans, the sweat on his hair and his neck and his shoulder blades.

John grit his teeth, kept up a regular tempo with his hips. Switched from deep, to shallow, to deep thrusts that made them both shudder, made him groan against Sherlock’s spine. Sherlock tasted delicious there and so John gave another violent thrust, reached down to slide his hands alongside Sherlock’s ribcage and up to his neck, around his throat, and pulled him up to sit back against him, so he could bite the tender skin just over his jugular, sink his teeth there.

“Lie down on your back,” he murmured into Sherlock’s ear. “Lie down. I want to look into your eyes when you come.”

His own words nearly drove him over the edge. Sherlock was putty in his hands and so he nodded, gently disentangled himself and turned around to lie down; John had to hold his fingers at the base of his cock, thanked God for the condom.

When he pushed into Sherlock again, John knew it was nearly over. Sherlock cried out loudly, arched his back and held onto the bed sheets as if it was all too much. For a moment John feared it was; but then Sherlock took his hand, placed it on his own cock; tensed up in pleasure when John started stroking him.

He kept his eyes open and on John, fought the impulse to close them every time his eyelids became too heavy. John watched, until the very last second, until Sherlock convulsed and spasmed and _came_ , _tighttightight_ and scorching hot, and absolutely _gorgeous._

John held his face between his hands afterwards, elbows on the bed as he chased his own pleasure inside Sherlock, drank his gaze and his little pained moans as he rode the contractions inside his body, thrust hard, promised _just a bit more, oh god, yes, just relax, let me in, just like that, you gorgeous thing, just a little bit longer, I'm going to come so deep inside of you._

When his orgasm hit, he couldn't actually keep his eyes open, as hard as he tried. He growled against the side of Sherlock’s face; laid on him, exhausted, his nose and mouth going to bury themselves in the vulnerable bend of Sherlock’s throat.

 

 

 

“Now, wasn't this a much better idea,” Sherlock said afterwards, as they lay side by side on the bed, breaths their regular rhythm, and gentle smiles on their faces.

“Cheeky.” John reached out with his hand, nudged Sherlock’s face towards himself. His curls were wild, and still sweaty. His eyes wide and dark blue.

“Do you regret not having stuck to your silly plan?” Sherlock’s voice was playful, but the question was there.

John sighed.

“I don't regret anything.” He lifted himself up on an elbow; caressed a curl away from Sherlock’s temple. “I don't regret _anything._ With you.”

 

Sherlock smiled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And this is it! This is the story of how the boys spent Christmas... 
> 
> There will be a little epilogue tomorrow, stay tuned. :)
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks for reading and commenting, and I hope you have a wonderful day!


End file.
